‘Then ask Rivard. He’s her husband.’
Again there was that grin.
Kohler flicked a glance the length of the bar, then said, ‘Let’s have the drinks and I’ll ask him later.’
‘Rivard’ looked like something out of a zoo. The red plaid workshirt and open leather jerkin revealed the gut of an iron barrel. He had the face of a mountain. All crags and clefts and paralysing cliffs. The wavy, jet black hair of a first-class hood.
It was he who watched the trade, never ceasing to let his eyes sift over the crowd.
‘It’s a nice place you’ve got,’ acknowledged Kohler, hoisting the first of the beers and returning his gaze to the barman.
The Corsican watched him down it. Would the Gestapo now drink the pastis – without water?
‘Those are for my buddy,’ said Kohler, not bothering to add that he found the taste of anise and liquorice insipid. ‘So now, my friend, while I’ve got your ear, you’ll answer a few things, eh?’
‘Fuck off.’
A hand shot across the bar but stopped to pat the chest. ‘Just a few little questions. This is too nice a place for us to shut down, so … some answers. One: who owns it?’
‘We do – my brother and I.’ It was nothing secret.
‘Rivard?’ asked Kohler, not believing a word of it.
‘Yes, my brother.’ The man turned away to serve more drinks. He never really stopped – all grace and fluid motion. Lovely with the knife, no doubt.
‘Drugs?’ asked Kohler, smelling them.
‘Don’t be stupid, my friend. Where would we get them these lays?’
‘The same place you got the beer and the pastis.’
‘No drugs. Search if you like.’
Kohler drew out his whistle and laid it on the bar. ‘Are you serious?’ he asked, toying with it.
He opened his jacket – still had his overcoat on. He let the Corsican see the Walther P-38 in its shoulder holster.
The man shrugged and turned to shout the length of the bar, ‘Hey, Remi, we’ve got a hot one here. Wants to know if we’ll serve him some hashish. Is it the oil you wish, monsieur?’ fluted the Corsican.
Kohler’s fist closed about the second beer.
‘Brother’ joined ‘brother’. ‘Look, all I want is the answer to one simple question.’
They waited. The kicks came to an end – more thunderous applause and all eyes turned towards the stage but three pairs of them.
‘Why do you boys call this place the Mirage?’
It was Remi Rivard who grunted, ‘Use your eyes, turd. Watch and see for yourself.’
They were both grinning.
Caught, transfixed, St-Cyr stood in the corridor beside the door to the kitchens. The woman who had come out of the second dressing-room was tall and willowy, just as he had imagined. But there all similarity ceased. From the back she had the most stunning figure of any woman he’d ever seen. The shimmering silk beneath the strands of tiny pearls was electric. The back was straight, the shoulders square and very fine, the waist slender, the hips … the seat … Ah, Mon Dieu, such a gift. Straight from the gods and only for them.
The legs were long and the fabric of the sheath clung to them. Her arms were bare except for bracelets of diamonds. There was a diamond choker round her neck. The soft blonde hair was piled up in waves and curls to reveal delicate lobes and dangling ear-rings of diamonds also.
For one split second their eyes had met and even from a distance of perhaps ten metres, he had known hers were not just blue but a superb shade of violet.
As he watched, she moved gracefully up on to the stage.
The house lights were dimmed. He shut her out of his mind for the moment – Hermann would report at length.
He went along to the dressing-room. The cheering died down. A hush took its place and then he heard her saying quite clearly in beautiful French, ‘My dear, dear friends, I have a song that is especially for you.’
St-Cyr opened the door and stepped inside the dressing-room. At once another female voice said, ‘Monsieur, what are you doing?’
It was the girl, the maid, the killer of that boy.
‘Are you from the police?’ she asked, dismayed and badly frightened. Just sitting there on her mistress’s chair before the dressing table. Hands poised in her lap, the mending clutched. Reflections of her in the mirror.
He shook his head and managed a fatherly smile. The police? Ah no, mademoiselle. My name is Roger Dumont, from the fire marshall’s office. I am merely here to see if you have the proper number of extinguishers in this establishment.’
She tossed her head and returned to her mending. ‘I think it is in the corner, behind the screen.’
Had there been tears in the dark brown eyes? The girl was about twenty-two, of medium height and delicate build, but with strong touches of the peasant and brisk little movements. Quite petite – lashes that were long and almost black. Lips that were …
St-Cyr went behind the dressing screen. Clothes were scattered everywhere. A pair of white silk briefs, complete with lace, was draped carelessly over the top of the ancient fire extinguisher. ‘It should be out in plain view, mademoiselle,’ he said severely. ‘Can you tell me, please, when it was last serviced? There is no tag.’
He had a momentary flash – a frame of the singer’s figure in that sheath, buffed down, stripped completely and absolutely, before putting on the dress. Done in a hurry too. Had they been arguing? Surely she’d have had plenty of time?
She’d have raised her slender arms perhaps. Who knows? It was a thought.
He dropped the underpants as the maid came round the other end of the screen. ‘You must ask the Rivards, monsieur. Me, I know nothing of such things.’
She was really quite firm about it. ‘Would your mistress?’
The head was tossed, the short brown hair bounced. ‘No, of course not. Is there anything else, monsieur?’
Her wounded eyes took him in … Steady, he said silently. Steady, my pretty thing. ‘Has my visit upset you in some way, mademoiselle?’
The girl turned from him as if struck. The shoulders shook. St-Cyr picked his way through the clothing and came to stand behind her. ‘You poor thing,’ he said gently. ‘Me, I have upset you.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, bowing her head and hiding her face in a hand. ‘Nothing, monsieur.’
The girl burst into tears. On the way out, she snatched up her coat, then fled along the corridor and out into the courtyard.
When he reached the street, St-Cyr found the Daimler gone and the girl standing destitute at the side of the road some thirty metres from him. She was staring down at the tiny blue flame that flickered from its kerosene pot. Was it safe to leave her like that? She’d break to pieces if he touched her. So fragile. Like glass. Like something de Maupassant might have written about.
The pull the girl exerted was almost magnetic. He could not leave her, yet he knew he must. In spite of the tears – in spite of everything – he had to ask himself if she had really killed the boy?
Tearing himself away from the courtyard door, St-Cyr went back to the dressing-room – was moving swiftly when he found the purse with its beads of silk.
What the hell … had Hermann …?
It was an exact duplicate of the one Kohler had found in the woods.
There was nothing in it. Nothing yet but tissue paper. Her ID and other papers, the keys to her flat, to a car, money, et cetera were in a dark blue alligator handbag behind the screen. The photograph didn’t do her justice. The ID gave her name as Gabrielle Arcuri.
The address was Apartment 22, number 45, boulevard Emile Auger. It wasn’t very far from the flat where Marianne was staying. In fact, it must be just around the corner.
A small brown purse yielded up the maid’s name: Yvette Marie Noel, of the same address.
For a moment he stood there looking at the girl’s photograph. The nose was aquiline, the eyes … ah, what could he say?
It’s my night for young girls who are in trouble, he answered. There were some photographs, small snapshots – the turrets of a chateau, an osier field, farmhands at work, happier times perhaps. The boy – the photograph badly crumpled and blotched by tears. The Loire – he was certain of it. Flat-bottomed punts lay among distant reeds.